Question
by Lawi01
Summary: A Peeta/Katniss oneshot. Based on the song 'Question' by The Old 97's.


**A/N: Yeah, so… I kind of started reading **_**The Hunger Games **_**six days ago. And I kind of finished **_**Mockingjay **_**two days ago. And all I can say is I fucking love Peeta/Katniss. So take cover, all ye people, and prepare yourselves for fluff. **

**I don't own **_**The Hunger Games**_**.**

I'm no stranger to nightmares. They started when I was little, after my father died in a mine explosion. They intensified after I survived the Hunger Games when I was sixteen. Now, after everything I have seen in the war, they never leave me alone. Time makes no difference: there are some wounds that can't be healed.

Like the death- the _murder_- of my thirteen-year-old sister. So what if it was three years ago? It doesn't mean it didn't happen. It just means it hurts more to wake up in the morning with the images of her confused face disappearing in flames as clear as it was the day it happened. Sometimes I do see it how it happened, in my nightmares, except it happens over and over again. Every time she reappears I can't help but hope maybe she'll be spared this time and I'll wake up with her little body just across from mine, but it never happens. I usually wake up screaming her name, but I know she'll never hear me, ever again.

This version is different. I see Prim's face, her blonde plait almost white in the ash that is falling from the sky like snow, and her duck tail, and her delicate brows puckered in confusion. I see her lips start to form my name and I have to move _now _because at any moment the other parachutes will explode and she'll be dead, but then _I'm _engulfed in the flame of the fire mutt. Or, rather, my head is. Just my head. My body doesn't feel any of the searing agony. I hear Prim's voice saying my name, calling out to me in confusion and concern, and worse than the physical pain is knowing that I would be fully capable of saving her if I could see where I was going. But all I can hear is her voice, beginning to sound more and more like a duck's distressed quack, and whenever I try to call back my mouth is just filled with flames. I try to stumble towards her but though my legs are spared from the fire they're heavier than lead and I can't move. Prim's duck-voice gives out a terrified squawk- like the sound Haymitch's geese make, sometimes- and then cuts off abruptly just as the sound of a hundred bombs exploding tears the air to shreds-

"_Prim_!"

I wake with a start, lunging across the mattress helplessly to where my sister was standing before the fire bloomed. My eyes fill with tears- again- but I feel a gentle squeeze around my waist and relax, barely. Peeta is here. He always is. His strong, comforting arms are wrapped protectively around my waist and hold me close to him. I let him pull me in, letting my muscles fall limp and succumb to his warmth. He's a miracle, Peeta: I don't know how he endures my nightly screaming and thrashing and still looks me in the eye the next morning and tells me he loves me. Ordinarily I wouldn't think the same would be possible from me, but my legs are just as bruised as his and here we are.

"Morning," he mumbles in my ear, reaching over to kiss my cheek.

I grasp his shoulder lightly, stroking it with my thumb. "Sorry for waking you," I reply softly, staring emptily at the white sheets and trying to not think about my nightmare.

He shrugs. "It's not like I sleep much better than you do."

"You shouldn't," I say simply. "This should be the other way around."

He knows what I mean: he witnessed far worse horrors during the war that I accidentally caused than I have. Rejection from me, losing his leg, losing his entire family and his home, torture from the Capitol, having to fight off the Capitol-created homicidal monster inside him every so often. Put all of that on top of the things we've witnessed together- the Games, the murders in District 11 during our Victory Tour, the Quell- and a weaker man would be a raving lunatic by now. But he's not. He's come very close to, but I pulled him through the same way he's pulled me through. The most astonishing thing about it all is that he doesn't quaver in the face of any of it, except in his sleep. He has held a brave face for everything he's been through, and even though his torments are ten times worse than mine I always wake with his arms around me. I'm still having trouble opening up to others- even Peeta- and I feel guilty that I can't think of anything to do to help him after everything he's done for me, but he tells me that just having me here and knowing that I love him for real and not as part of someone else's Games is good enough for him.

Haymitch was right: I could live a thousand lifetimes and still not deserve Peeta.

I feel Peeta's cheeks lift in a smile against my head. "I've got a paintbrush and cakes," he says in response. Painting and baking are his therapies: the detail in the brush strokes and the concentration the cake decorations require take his mind off other things. He still paints things from the Games or the people we lost in the war, but out of consideration he never paints the terrifying aspects of either. There's one of all of the tributes from the Quell holding hands, as seen on national television, and another of Finnick and Annie on their wedding day (even though he wasn't there). One of my favourites is a painting of something that never happened: it depicts a tamer version of the jungle and the beach from the Quell, with all of the tributes that we allied with standing around it like we're at a holiday park. You can see Finnick diving in the water like a dolphin, Johanna beginning to strip free of her swimsuit, Beetee teaching Wiress to control a small boat he made, Mags fishing. And Peeta and I sitting on the side. Even though it's a small, paint version, you can clearly see that he is giving me a pearl, and I'm laughing. That part, at least, is mostly true. Only four of the people in that painting are still alive, but it never hurts to look at it because it's a normal, tame, almost funny suggestion of what could have been.

His arms loosen and slide away from my waist. For a moment I seize up in panic, instinctively fearing that someone has taken him away from me, but he's still there, stretching and yawning in the sun that trickles in through his window. I don't officially live with Peeta, but I might as well- I figure that given everything else he's done for me the least I can do is save him the trouble of staying the night at my place to keep me comfort in the troublesome hours of sleep. I roll onto my back and watch him, his blonde hair glinting in the light. He sleeps shirtless, something that a few years ago would have made me feel intensely uncomfortable but now seems completely normal. Despite all of the mistreatment he has suffered since I've known him- since the Games- his arms are still healthy and strong and he very rarely gets sick. His teeth aren't even slightly brown.

He sees me staring and pokes his tongue out playfully over his shoulder; I pull a face in response. He chuckles quietly to himself and, throwing a shirt on over his head, departs for breakfast. I stay where I am, giving myself a few minutes to acknowledge Prim and her death. It's part of my therapy: to acknowledge the victims of my nightmares, should there be any, and think about their life in a positive light. Some people I have nothing good to say about- people like Cato or President Coin- but I even find room in my heart on the odd occasions when the late President Snow enters my dreams and acknowledge that he, at least, told me the truth. It's surprisingly difficult for Rue, seeing as the time I knew her was the time imminent to her death and that's a difficult fact to ignore, but most of the time imagining her flying amongst the clouds is enough to make me smile. I saved as many clothes as I could to remind myself of Cinna, even if most of them aren't fit for District 12. And alongside a lifetime of memories, Peeta gave me a painting of Prim playing with Buttercup and Lady for my birthday the year after the war ended. She looks so happy, and the painting so real, that the sight of it has never once made me cry. It hangs over my bed in my house.

Eventually, I get up. I stretch. I follow Peeta down to breakfast. Because he always wakes up before I do, nine times out of ten he'll already have a magnificent slice of home-made fresh bread cut up into even, toasted slices coated with honey or jam by the time I get into the kitchen. Once again, there is no way I could ever rightfully deserve Peeta, but it's how he deals with grief. Plus, it tastes amazing, and as he knows from the Games I'm rubbish at cooking anything that's not meat.

Sure enough, the smell of toasted bread wafts in as soon as I step into the living room. He's worked quickly: everything's already arranged on the table and there's a steaming cup of coffee waiting for me, with sugar and cream included because he knows that's the way I like it. The table is still empty of human occupants, but I can hear him in the kitchen. I never eat without him- I try not to go anywhere without him, out of fear he'll be snatched away from me like everyone else I love has- so I poke my head in the kitchen and there he is. He's preparing something over there- I can see his arms moving in such a way that suggests tearing soft bread and setting it down on a platter- but his back blocks my view. I lean against the doorframe, arms folded, and watch him. Even though baking and painting are two of the things he does best, there's an obvious difference in his behaviour depending on which activity he's doing. When he's painting, once he really gets into it, he falls silent and a look of concentration comes over his features. He blocks himself off to outside distractions, and he looks at the painting so intensely you can practically feel all of the energy he's pouring into the brush, even though his strokes might be small. It's similar when he's decorating a cake, but only because that requires spectacular concentration. But when he's baking, he's chatty and he moves freely and you don't doubt for a moment that this is a profession he was born into. Even if you put him in a completely foreign kitchen, he would still find his way somehow and you could watch him and think he _lived _in that kitchen.

Which is why it bothers me that he's not speaking now. That his movements seem so precise and stiff, even from over here. Instantly my mind floods with possibilities: maybe he's preoccupied, maybe he's tired. On a more sinister note, maybe the monster the Capitol injected into his bloodstream has surfaced. It still happens, but usually he just grabs onto something and holds tight until it's over. Maybe it overcame him in his sleep… He seemed normal enough when we woke up, didn't he? Even as I think it I know I'm wrong. He was unusually tame before, and worryingly quick to leave. He usually stays until he's sure I'll be alright without him so I can reflect on the nightmares alone. But this morning he just… left.

Dread and terror fling themselves together and rise as a hard lump in my throat. Ready to lash out and planning out an escape route as I move, I pad over to him and, after a moment of hesitation, slide my arms around his waist like he's done for me a thousand times before. He flinches and I prepare to hit him or run or greet my death, but he's just surprised. Even that isn't comforting: he always _knows _if I'm in a room, somehow. He didn't react to my presence at all until I touched him. He doesn't stiffen at my touch like he did when he was hijacked, which either means I'm just being paranoid or his hijack-self has gotten more intelligent. He doesn't stop working, and I stand on tiptoe to peek over his shoulder and see what he's doing.

He's separating a cluster of cheese buns from each other. My favourite.

"Cheese buns?" I ask. "What's the occasion?"

His shoulders move up and down beneath my chin and he smiles. "There doesn't always have to be an occasion to treat you, does there?"

We both laugh, but I haven't quite relaxed yet. Something's not right. He finishes and picks up the plate: I release him so he can turn, and as he does I reach up and kiss him, knowing full well to do so could well be suicide. He doesn't flinch or stiffen up at all this time, and for a moment it's normal. Then it's over and I'm following him out of the kitchen and back to the table. Everything seems alright, but I just can't put my nerves to rest. My fingers itch for a rope, something to tie stress-relieving knots in, but I can't give away any suspicions just yet. If Peeta _isn't _himself, he could attack me at any time. The butterknives at the table aren't particularly sharp, but he could penetrate my neck if he hit with enough force and speed. It's a sickening thought, but he has tried to strangle me once before. I just have to be ready for anything.

My tension translates into silence, and it doesn't go unnoticed. "Are you OK?" Peeta asks, brows knitted in concern.

"Fine," I reply, a little too quickly. "Just… thinking about the nightmare."

"You know you're not supposed to dwell on them too much," Peeta says pointedly around a mouthful of toast.

Shrug. "It's hard not to, though, isn't it?"

Peeta sighs and set his slice of toast down. "I know," he says quietly. "Do you want to go for a walk?"

I can't help it: I'm instantly suspicious. If Peeta _is _trying to kill me, the best place to do it would be somewhere remote where no-one would know. I could say no but if he could well fling himself across the table and kill me now, unarmed and mostly unprepared. If I go with him there's a chance he might lose control in the middle of a crowd and that someone could hold him back, at least until the rage passes. And a kick to his artificial leg would down him long enough for me to get a grip…

"Alright," I say eventually. "I'll clean up here."

Peeta nods and smiles tightly, dashing back upstairs. As I stack the plates in the sink the possibilities overwhelm me and I have to grab onto the bench to keep my hands from shaking. It's probably nothing- Dr Aurelius said that paranoia could be a side-effect after everything I've been through, but knowing it could be the side-effect of a mental condition doesn't help. Everything has been going so well… As well as it could, anyway.

I take deep breaths, trying to calm myself. A glint of silver catches my attention: the bread knife, lying on the bench. Beyond it, the other knives, clustered in a metal tin. I extend a trembling hand and pluck one of the smaller ones from the tin, clenching it in my fist. I won't _kill _Peeta; I couldn't even if I tried. But if he does try to kill me… I'll just hurt him enough to put him out of the game. None of the others seem to be missing, so who knows, maybe he's not trying to kill me. But I know how strong his hands are and how capable they are of strangling me. I just have to be ready.

I tuck the knife into the elastic of my pyjama pants as Peeta reappears, dressed in layers. While it's warm in the house, summer is quickly giving way to a chilly autumn. I smile and duck past him, trying to move without being stabbed in the thigh by the knife so precariously concealed in my underwear. Back in the room that was once Peeta's but is now shared by the two of us I fish yesterday's clothes out of a pile and tuck the knife carefully in an inside pocket of my father's old hunting coat. I rarely go anywhere without that, either.

When I come back downstairs, Peeta's still waiting. He extends a hand, and I take it, and off we go. Looking at the streets of District 12, you wouldn't guess that it had been bombed to bits a few years ago. Houses have been rebuilt, more are still being built. Crops have sprung up everywhere and the smell of medicine- of business- wafts over from the new factory. In the distance, you can see the Meadow, humming with life despite what lays beneath it. Despite the chill morning air the square is thriving with the market we still refer to as the Hob, even though there's nothing 'black' about it. We pass the new bakery, where Peeta bakes and I serve and we earn a living, windows dark because it's a Sunday and we don't work on Sundays. The sky is clear and crisp, the air refreshingly clean, now that coal dust doesn't hang in it so heavily.

It's a pretty picture, alright, and even though Peeta's fingers are intertwined with mine I still feel alone. Trapped by my paranoia. Terrified that the man I love could turn around and kill me at any minute. His hand is as soft and comforting as always, but I can feel the detachment, feel his arms tense and relax involuntarily. And his dragging silence. Even on a bad day, he'll always have _something _to say.

"Have you heard from Gale?" he asks suddenly.

My muscles tense instinctively. Great. I want him to make conversation and _that's _what he comes up with. His tone isn't cutting or edgy, just casual and curious. But you never know what's hiding behind those clear blue eyes. Gale was never a popular topic of conversation for Peeta, so why does he want to know now? I can't think of any reason his Capitol monster would want to know, but I can't think of any reason the real Peeta would ask.

The truth is, I don't know what Gale is doing. A few weeks ago, after years of practically avoiding the other's existence, he sent me a letter. About his job, how District 2 is recovering from the war, etc. Nothing about any girls he might be seeing now. When I finally plucked up the guts to reply, I stared at a blank sheet for what felt like hours before I finally wrote something. I felt guilty that the only thing I could think to write about was Peeta and me and our life in the rebuilt District 12. There was no nice way of saying it and we both knew exactly what I was trying to tell him: that I had made my choice, that I was off-limits, that while he was my best friend and sure, some days I still missed him, I wasn't pining without him. But I didn't re-write what I had written or try to start again because I knew that that was all I really had to say. As I sealed the letter I couldn't supress the feeling that if I thought things had been different between us after the Games, it would be nothing to how it would be now. Sure enough, he didn't reply. There was nothing else for us to say.

"I don't know," I reply, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. "I haven't heard back."

Peeta doesn't reply, but I swear I can feel his arms relax. Was that it? Did he just ask so he could be assured that he had no competition? I can't help but feel almost betrayed. I thought he was beyond that, now. Or doesn't it mean anything when I tell him I love him? I don't suppose I can blame him- I've lied to him once before. But I guess I just really believed… Not that it matters. Depending on whether or not my hunch is right, there are more pressing things to worry about.

We move on in silence, and it becomes less of an impression that we're walking together and more one that Peeta is leading me somewhere. As we leave the straggling town behind us, there's no question about it: he's taking me somewhere. He's not dragging me along, and he isn't in a hurry; rather, his hand is gently guiding me in the direction he wants me to go. I don't question him, but all of this mystery does nothing to calm my nerves or clear me of my suspicions. I tense myself, ready to grab my knife at a moment's notice, as we draw closer to the Meadow. The fence was long since torn down but I can't help instinctively bending my knees a little, as if to burrow under once more like I have so many times before. Peeta's hand is the only thing keeping me upright, but as we wander into the grass his fingers in mine begin to feel less like a stronghold and more like an alien grip.

The forest is already beginning to turn orange and brown, promising autumn. Peeta leads me up to the tree line, the silence broken only by the crunch of dead leaves under our boots. He brings me to the top of a small hill, from where you can see the entire District. His hand very carefully slips free of mine, but I can still feel him standing next to me. We stand in silence, watching our town. You'd have to be an idiot to miss the tension running high between us, masked by an air of false pleasantries. As I watch District 12 thrumming not so far away, I can't help but remember my life there. My father's death. My mother's depression. Hunting. Gale. The Hob. Prim's face when I came home with a goat, all for her. When I tried to drown Buttercup. Peeta tossing me those burnt loaves in the rain. The dandelion. Everything, all the way up to the reaping. The day that changed my life, twisted it and mangled it. Instead I skip ahead to when Peeta and I came home after the war, and the years since. Our recovery. Recovery that, if I'm right, could all count to nothing if Peeta leaves the Meadow alone with bloody hands.

The image sends a painful pang right through my heart, and I instinctively reach for Peeta's hand for comfort. But it's not there. Heart thumping with panic, I whip my knife out and turn, prepared to stick it in the guts of anyone who has dared to take Peeta away from me, or even to turn the knife on myself if the last three years turn out to be the daydreams of a damaged teen.

But he's still there. Kneeling. Doing up his shoelace? The tense mask that has been caked to his face all morning breaks as he lifts one amused eyebrow. "Calm down, Katniss," he says, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "It's just a ring."

A ring? I look down, and suddenly he's not doing his shoes anymore. He's watching my face very carefully from where he kneels in the grass. And clasped in his hands, held out to me, is a small, gold ring. Even from up here I can see that whoever made it twisted the metal into a miniscule bird, wings spread in flight. Small black and white stones create its feather, leaving me in no doubt as to what bird it is. A mockingjay.

I've been here once before. On national television. Except it was my idea, and it was fabricated. This is nothing like that. Back then, the ring was a cheap ring of silver, the whole country had been watching and, most painstaking of all, it wasn't real. Suddenly the knife feels unbearably heavy in my hand: I drop it, and it lands with a dull _thud _in the grass. I remember standing in the kitchen not so long ago, telling myself to be prepared for anything. And I thought I was. I really thought I was. But nothing could have prepared me for this. It's sickening to think that all morning I've been waiting for Peeta to turn on me, when really the entire time he was just buzzing with nerves. Who wouldn't be? And asking about Gale was the only consolation he could find…

Gale. Unbidden his image rises in my mind, and I can't help but visualize myself in this situation except with him. Even before it fully forms I know it's not right. It just feels wrong. I can't see myself saying 'yes'. Any guilt I felt at my letter to Gale disappears, if only momentarily, because if nothing else this reinforces what I've known for years: it was always meant to be Peeta.

My silence drags on for too long, and Peeta's face has become stony again. I want to speak- I have to- but I'm so shocked I can't. Then, finally, Peeta does, and the four words he manages to squeeze from his lips are ones I've heard countless times before:

"Real or not real?"

"Real," I breathe- before collapsing and flinging myself on him. He laughs, relieved, as my weight topples us over in the grass and I'm lying on top of him. I roll away and he cranes his neck forward. Our lips meet and I can feel his warm hand holding mine and his fingers carefully sliding the ring on my finger.

And then I can't stop myself: I start to cry. Which is stupid, because this is literally the happiest I've been for an unbelievably long time, but I just can't help it. If I had moved too quickly, and attacked him at breakfast, this entire thing could have been ruined. The notion that only moments ago I was prepared to hurt him, when all he was trying to do was ask me a simple question, is sickening. He laughs softly and holds me close as he has so many times before, keeping his arms wrapped around me until the sobs turn to laughter.

I don't know how long we were lying there, but eventually we stagger to our feet and, leaving the knife behind and holding his hand so tightly I think it might burst, Peeta and I make our way back into the village. Apparently everyone knew except me, because there's a celebratory welcoming party as we move back through the town. It takes forever to move through them all, despite the small population. Hammered with questions we don't even know the answers to yet- when is it, where is it, who's coming- and showered with congratulations. Hugs and tears and cheers and handshakes. The promise of wearing one of Cinna's beautiful gowns for real. Jokes that the many Capitol citizens who had shed so many tears over our star-crossed tragic romance will never get to see us wed properly. By the time we break free of them it's already lunch, but we procrastinate further and take the long way back to Peeta's house- _our _house- lost in the happiest daydream I've had in a long time.

Haymitch is waiting for us. He takes one look at our faces and roars with laughter, clapping Peeta's face and planting a rather sloppy kiss on my cheek. He seems to have maintained a level of half-sobriety for the occasion, and even if he's mostly incoherent I take note of the great honour he has bestowed on us for the occasion. It turns out Peeta had confided in him first and despite the fact that Haymitch and I aren't exactly the best of buddies it was he who got the ring arranged. I insist on making a myriad of phone calls- to Beetee, to Johanna, to my mother, to Annie, even to Gale- to tell them the good news, only to find that Peeta even told them about his plans and they were just waiting for confirmation. He'd even taken the time to get the blessings of both my mother and even Gale before going through with it, and even though my call with Gale is heart-wrenchingly awkward he sounds happy enough.

We leave the wedding plans for later- the rest of the day is spent celebrating with friends and eating. As the day winds down, I slip out of the house long enough to find the painting of Prim in my room and tell her what's happened. She doesn't reply except for a smile, but it's enough for me.

For the first time in a while Peeta falls asleep before I do, his head on my lap. I curl his hair around my fingers and watch the fire crackling in the hearth absently, remembering Peeta's beach scene. I imagine Johanna at the wedding with the short hair she never really grew out looking frustrated in a tree-like gown, just like she did the day we met. Finnick and Annie with matching sea-green dress clothes, watching lovingly over their baby in Mags' arms. Beetee and Wiress amusing themselves by casting a spotlight on any events that catch their attention. My mother, looking as beautiful as everyone said she did when she was younger in a beautifully simple dress. Gale in a suit that resembles his hunting clothes. Rue and Prim playing together in matching dresses of white with Buttercup slinking about their heels. As my eyelids become heavy and I lose track of my thoughts, I manage a smile at the thought. Even though half of those people will never see Peeta and I toast a slice of bread in person, I'm sure they'll be watching from where they are anyway.

I don't have any nightmares that night.


End file.
